by Andrew Grant
(Lincolnshire, England)

In ancient ritual, deceitful sirens prowl,
Their spiritual caresses lure the fragile soul.
With a touch that belies the vivid myth inhaled,
And every breath of acrid smoke expelled.
This timeless veil distorts the view of man,
Who at the end will hold destruction in his hands.

Arise ancestral chimera to haunt this vision tonight
And rapaciously devour the source of endless light.
Your heart beats by fuelling Kuzimu's fire,
And your truth, the cause of martyrdom's desire.
Paradise nor horror awaits in death's perpetual sleep;
When silent pyres across midnight waters creep.

Out of darkness, light, brushed by celestial hands,
The spread of sacred prophecy enriched the barren lands.
And as the womb's embers delivered the world its dawn-
Dust of the earth was through immortal fingers drawn.
The seeds of creation sown, designed the living soul
Who speaks of seven days in tales that will be told.

Our garden's legacy, this gift of conscious dreams;
Divine revelations are conjured truth, it seems.
Through temples, no authority will the answer find,
It is innocence that stains the ochre painted mind.
As night caresses the face of the endless seas,
Our superstition of what death holds
still brings us to our knees.

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